Getting There

Since everything is but an apparition,
having nothing to do with good or bad,
acceptance or rejection,
one may well burst out in laughter.

– Longchenpa –

Getting to Leon from the capital was easy by minivan, but getting to the hostel from the bus station was another story, on account of the no-address problem.  I basically walked the city in progressively smaller circles until I located the place.  And once there, I found I was sharing the dorm-style room with at least one crazy old man.  It’s the type of crazy you don’t recognize immediately, so a conversation begins, and all you think is they’re just a bit of a talker.  But then the talking continues.  And he does not take social cues that you would like to disengage from the conversation and leave the room.  Then he starts with the big, unsolicited stories about his incarcerated friend, the Greatest Jewel Thief Who Has Ever Lived.  Then about a private airport this other guy he knows used to run out of his backyard in Massachusetts after he built an airplane from scratch with no aviation training and he taught a bunch of other guys to build and fly airplanes and they just went on like this for some time until the neighbors complained and the FBI got involved.  Or how he just caught a $49 flight from Florida to Nicaragua.  Now that’s a whopper.  I finally managed to escape and found the place that books the volcano boarding, Bigfoot Hostel.

The next morning, we set off in a truck converted to fit about 20 people on benches lining the bed.  We were a group of about as many, including several Americans from the embassy AND, another Blair!  It was a dude 🙁

The ride to the volcano was harrowing.  There had been rain the night before and occasionally when we hit bumps or turns, a deluge of water was dumped from the canvas tarp overhead onto unsuspecting victims below.  Also, I got hit in the face with a tree.  This, courtesy of branches which were free to whip into our faces at any time as the sides were completely open.

Our instructor/guide Carlos was charming and informative and took great pleasure in reassuring us all that the adventure upon which we’d embarked was the most dangerous and terrifying thing we’d ever done or would do-should we survive.  Did he almost convince me to buy last minute traveler’s insurance in a small internet station at the entrance to the park?  Perhaps.  I don’t usually go for the traveler’s insurance thing (bound to catch up to me) and it is likely the guilt of this, strengthened by a deep seated fear of the obviously skewed malevolent statistical probabilities which define my everyday encounters that made me nearly fall for it.  Because I am soooo not gullible…he was just very…compelling.

It was a small hike carrying all the boarding gear from the base to the summit, er, ex-summit, now crater.  But the climb was the least of my worries.  Cerra Negro is quite active compared to other volcanos.  And moreover, the history of eruption is such that it should be due for another like, yesterday.  Nearby San Cristobal volcano had some troubling grumblings not a month before.  The ground was warm to the touch and there were sulfuric plumes rising from inside the crater. Up I go!

The view at the top was daunting considering method of decent.  We suited up in ridiculous orange jumpsuits, the group sang me happy birthday (my last?!) and we lined up to board down.  By the time I readied myself at the launch point, my heart was in my throat, but I was in game-time mode.  There was a guy with a speed gun at the bottom, clocking everyone.  I wanted to beat the best time (89km/hr), and I’d listened, studied and spoken to myself at length on how to achieve this.  Lean back, keep the top of the board up, balance with your core.  If you want to slow down, just stick your foot into the volcano.  Good then.

The signal came.  I set off at a decent pace, but very quickly veered left and fell over.  Got back on.  Started again, veered left, fell over.  This happened repeatedly without ever really picking up much speed.  In fact, each time I got back on, it seemed slower and pulled harder.  Eventually I picked up the board and walked the last bit of the way down.  Upon inspection, I found that the formica strip lining the bottom of my board to reduce friction had cracked and broken on a diagonal.  This meant that not only did it slow me down by jamming volcanic gravel between board and lining, but that it pushed me continuously left.  So that was disappointing.  Still, there were cookies and mojitos waiting at the bottom and all things considered, I had a pretty great birthday.

I got a little tied up in Leon for a couple of days.  The city’s tourism industry is just springing up, and there are a growing number of bars, hostels and cafes to sit around and write it.  It is a country still reeling from a history of violence, civil war, and poverty, and it’s looking to overcome this image and appeal to travelers.  I would very much suggest considering it if you’ve got a  vacation coming up.  The people are lovely, the food is delicious, and everything is incredibly cheap compared to its Central American neighbors.  But things are changing fast, I imagine in 10 years time it might be a very different ballgame.

Eventually, I left Leon in pursuit of the volcanic island of Ometepe.  It was a long day getting there, especially as I could feel a sore throat coming on.  I sat next to a young fellow on one of the busses who helped me find the ferry out to the island.  He commutes from school in Managua.  He looked to be in his late teens, which is generally a demographic I rely heavily on while abroad, but you have to be careful about that generalization:  Groups of teenage boys–bad news.  Lone teenage boys–so eager to help.  How creepy am I?

Once I reached the island, I was swarmed by taxi drivers willing to take me anywhere, but I’m too cheap for all that nonsense so I headed for the public buses.  It filled up quickly, and low and behold, I found myself again sharing a seat with young Gilbert from before.  He drew me a map of bus routes around the island and explained that the hostel I was headed for was impossible to reach that evening because of the schedule, but there was another place I could get to, he’d tell me where to hop off for a transfer.  In fairness to Gilbert, it is possible he said more than this, my Spanish is not so perfect.  I got off the bus where I was told, but as it was pulling away, someone leaned out the window and said in English, “Careful!  This is the last bus tonight!”  Thanks for that.  Gilbert apparently thought there was one more bus coming through to where I was going.  But Gilbert was wrong.  Luckily, he’d also gotten off the bus, but not for a transfer.  At this point, he was just going home.

It was pitch black aside from the occasional car coming down the road and a house with the front porch dimly lit and playing bachata, inhabitants chatting.  It began to rain.  I discussed my options with Gilbert, apparently there weren’t so many.  “My mom works at a hotel”, he said, “you can stay there.” He made a few phone calls.  First, to his mother to explain the situation and ask if there was a room available.  There was.  Second, he called his friend who was coming to pick him up and asked if he minded another passenger.  He would be there shortly, arriving via motorcycle.  When he finally got there, Gilbert took my bag on his back so I could sit in the safer middle seat.  “Nice to meet you,” I told the driver as I straddled his dorsal side, “I’m Blair.”

If you ever want to get to know someone well and quickly, try riding three on a bike with them.  I briefly debated where was the appropriate place to hold on, but seeing we were all pretty close now – my face pushed up over the driver’s left shoulder, breathing into the back of his neck, legs wrapped around and chest smushed firmly into back…where to put my hands just seemed like semantics at that point.  Hi mom!

We rode down unlit roads for a good 20 minutes, passing no one.  The rain had largely ceased, but there was a persistent lightening storm, revealing that we were driving right against the coast, waves crashing onto the beach illuminated under bright flashes.  We arrived at the hotel, my water bottle the only casualty.  Gilbert’s mom came out to greet me and show me the room….as if I might be like, Oh, there’s no minibar?  No thanks, I think I’ll keep looking.  I told her I did not care what the room looked like, I was going to take it.

When I stepped out of my room the next morning, I was surrounded by iguanas.  Big ones.  Just hanging out on the patio, roof, in the trees, everywhere.  I walked a ways to another hostel called Lil’ Morgans.  Off the “main” road, you follow a path with more flowers and butterflies than you’ve seen in your life.  I really geeked out about it.  The awesome thing about Lil’ Morgans is that the shared dorms are built into a Swiss Family Robinson-style tree house.  And a few levels up, there are hammocks that overlook the island with nice views of both volcanos.  I was getting sicker and lacked energy, so I spent the rest of my time on the island doing basically that.

The first thing I did back in Managua was load up on antibiotics.  The second thing I did was think I went to the hostel I stayed in the first night, but actually walk into a private residence instead.  The entrance looked the same!  Upon entering the common area, I figured out my misstep and  retreated.

All in all, I dealt with many of my Am I doing this right? questions. But not with particularly encouraging answers.  Yes, would be the short answer, butthere’s no wrong way so long as it’s in keeping with who you are is a longer one.  And this of course is further complicated by the necessary cliche ofknowing who you are to begin with, which should never be separated from keeping an open mind about what you can be.  And frustratingly, this means you may never know with certainty the answers to any of your damn questions…but you must continue to pay attention.  And by all means, beware:  there are no familiar landmarks, no speed limits, no maps; only an inner compass and the occasional “Evacuation Route” sign pointing towards nowhere helpful for when that active volcano you’ve been living on erupts.